A Trampling of Toes
by Nick Wright
Summary: A certain CEO thinks about his Problem. Spoilers for 1-2. Written as a challenge to myself. Rough and unbetaed. Originally appeared on the Objection! Archives.


They were supposed to have their respective tasks and duties. Things were supposed to be orderly.

If there was anything that the man dressed in pink hated, it was untidiness in his presence. It did not suit one of such magnitude, especially him, to have peasantry clutterage around.

He slid his fingers between each other and thought back to The Problem.

The Problem was Her and it had always been Her, before she'd ever shown up. He had always known that sometimes, there are people born with such presistance that they don't see their place in the jigsaw puzzle that was the world.

When he thought of this metaphor, his eyes flicked over to the statue in the corner out of habit, which was holding up a globical figure with ease.

It wasn't, he thought, pretending he understood semantics, a matter of place. It was all about position. Sometimes, when he was bored, he would fly around the world to see a good fencing match–of course, he was one of the few people who understood the sophistiry of this noble sport: the others were all a little too small of intellect to grasp the complexities. Personally, he hadn't cared much for the fighting aspect, as such things were above him… unless absolutely necessary.

No, he had always been fascinated by the dancing–the two noble bladesmen would circle, mirroring each other, and then they would attack. With their perfectly faceless, impersonal masks, they could have been anyone.

And Redd White believed they were anyone: his face was projected onto the winning fencer. For one fencer to win, the other had to fall, and that was their purpose in life. Once they had fulfilled their obligations and dutifications, they faded into the background to make room for Progress, with only the smooth and practiced click clack click clack of the blades remaining behind as an echomemory.

And Redd White controlled it all.

But here came someone he could not control. She danced defiantly, just out of reach of He the Champion, until she stepped in so quick he could not react, stamping all over his feet as she sliced mockingly at his mask with, of all things, her fingernails, and ruining the beautiful order of things. Then she would return to skirting the outsides. She would look neither preditational nor scared, but merely… amused. Always she would smile like she had a laugh tucked away somewhere. A laugh reserved especially for him.

For when he failed. And she would be there to see it, he was sure of that.

But no–he was thinking in nonsensitudes. He would not fail. Yes, he could see it now–her laughter was a mere (what was it the French called it?) –fashroud. She knew she was lying to herself: he could see it in her eyes. She knew she would fail. She couldn't touch him. He carried the world on his shoulders. If anything were to happen to him, sixteen select letters would be sent across the five corners of the Earth, and entire governments would crumble. Not that she would ever try anything like that.

He flicked his wrist in the air irritably, and his hand stayed upright, perpendicular to his desk, frozen in a gesturance that was dramatic and bold and suited him, as CEO. The light that had snuck through the small slots in the blinds made his jewelry glint. He would have given a whole gold chain to have had a picture of the moment: he was sure he must look very grand and regalious right now.

No, the problem with her was that she was defiant and yet compliant (he smiled, making a mental memo to write the phrase down when he found a pen worthy of doing so). If she rebelled against everything, then he could fit her back into a type. Perhaps she had just been classified wrong.

But he knew that wasn't true. She didn't fit anywhere in the puzzle of jigsaws.

He smirked. Even if she did have the gall to try to kill him, she would not get very far. No, he did not fear for his life, and especially not from her.

What did make him sweat under his collar (only when the employees had left for home) was that she would be able to find another like her–another who had guts and who would try to play it straight.

It was unlikely, of course–almost hilarious in its unlikeliescence, in fact.

Nevertheless, Redd White had never gotten ahead by taking risks–at least, not by taking risks he wasn't 100 sure that he would be better off for "chancing".

And that added up to one thing: Mia Fey would have to die. Her eternal silence… that was what he required, and nothing less. He had to do it, for his peace of mind. He couldn't stand her eyes–they spoke of a smirk that would await him if he was defeated. That smile, that cruel knowledge of failure: the look she gave him behind her eyes let him know that she would haunt him with his misery forever.


End file.
